


come back to life

by OnyxSphynx



Series: newmann one-shots [101]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, I mean, Light Angst, M/M, all things considered, bc apparently that's a Thing i use as a metaphor now lol, love through cooking, to be expected tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-07 21:24:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20824034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: You’d never expect it, really—but Hermann is a total sucker for affection; he soaks it in like a sponge and gravitates towards it like a heat-seeking missile; it’s kind of adorable, actually.No longer chilly, Newt makes his way into the kitchen and takes a look through the fridge; there’s the noodles, like he expected, and he pulls them out, as well as two eggs and some onions, and gets out a pan and the cooking oil; in no time, breakfast is frying away, sending up a delicious aroma.Hands wrap around his waist. “It smells divine,” Hermann says, resting his chin on Newt’s shoulder.





	come back to life

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: "Hi! I have this couple of sentences that I really like but I don't really know what to do with it lol I hope you can use it for a prompt or something! They have time, but Newt had not asked for it. His life may have been stolen, but like any stolen thing that is not recovered, Newt had learned to carry on without it. Eventually, the loss of the stolen thing is no longer felt as sharply. It throbs from time to time, and fades away again."

Newton Geiszler is an unstoppable force; that’s what Hermann always used to think, the thought trickling, fond, up the base of Newt’s neck through the bond between them.

And, yes, it’s true; Newt’s an unstoppable force; hurtling ever-forward, without any thought as to the consequences—he’s the human equivalent of doing a hundred on a ten-mile road; reckless to the extreme and living life both vicariously and dangerously, screeching through stopsigns and red lights, leaving everyone in the dust.

The thing is, though, that eventually, he crashes; because not even he can keep up with himself.

He crashes.

Bad.

Burns, fingers stained with a fuckton of blood that gives him nightmares, then, and now, still; bolting awake in the middle of the night, a scream caught in his throat; the memory of death cool and clean, analytical, almost, imprinted—_burned_ into his mind.

And then Hermann rolls over; mumbles something, half-unconscious, still, hand tugging at Newt’s shirt, and Newt thinks; _oh, okay. I’m okay._

And that—that helps.

That helps a lot, actually; _Hermann_ helps a lot—honestly, Newt’s not sure where he’d be without the grouchy mathematician. Dead, probably, or locked up, still. Newt wouldn’t blame him, had he abandoned him.

But no—instead, for some unfathomable reason, Hermann stayed. And because of that, Newt gets this: early morning sunlight streaming in through the crack in the curtains, spilling over Hermann’s form; warm against Newt’s side beneath the covers, his arm wrapped around the smaller man.

“G'morning,” Newt murmurs, soft, and turns a bit so he can to the other better, the sheets crinkling as he shifts.

“Hnn,” Hermann hums, eyes cracking open to slits. “Good morning, dear.” Involuntarily, his face splits with a yawn, messy hair getting even messier as he shifts to stretch a bit. Newt smiles.

“Hungry?” he asks, “we have…noodles, I think, leftover from last night; I can fry up some Polish noodles.”

Hermann’s nose crinkles as he smiles. “That sounds lovely,” he says, “I’m quite peckish.” He doesn’t move to get up; instead, curls his arm to pull Newt closer, breath curling, hot, across the nape of Newt’s neck and raising goosebumps there.

Newt breaths. _One, two._ “Dude,” he says, “you gotta let me go first.”

Hermann gives a sound that’s halfway to a groan, and tightens him grip, nosing at Newt’s neck. “_Newton…_” he murmurs.

Newt smiles. “C'mon, man,” he says, pushing at the other’s arm. “You’re gonna get grumpy if you don’t eat.” He prods at Hermann’s fingers. Finally, the other lets go with a grumble, and Newt rolls out of bed; drags a hand through his hair and digs out something to wear that won’t leave him freezing, ignoring Hermann’s intermittent attempts to get him back into bed.

You’d never expect it, really—but Hermann is a total sucker for affection; he soaks it in like a sponge and gravitates towards it like a heat-seeking missile; it’s kind of adorable, actually.

No longer chilly, Newt makes his way into the kitchen and takes a look through the fridge; there’s the noodles, like he expected, and he pulls them out, as well as two eggs and some onions, and gets out a pan and the cooking oil; in no time, breakfast is frying away, sending up a delicious aroma.

Hands wrap around his waist. “It smells divine,” Hermann says, resting his chin on Newt’s shoulder.

Newt smiles; genuine, the corners of his mouth dimpling. “Glad to hear it,” he replies. “Can you—?” But he doesn’t even have to finish his sentence; Hermann’s already in motion, getting out plates and forks, and cups; Newt snags one of them and pours Hermann’s tea the way he likes it—medium dark, no sugar—and hands it to him.

“Thank you,” Hermann says, lips canting up.

Newt serves them, and they sit and eat; the quiet between them thick but not uncomfortable, and Newt thinks it feels…_melancholy,_ almost; like he’s intruding upon someone else’s life; someone else’s domesticity—stolen time; or misplaced time, or…something.

They have time, but Newt had not asked for it. His life may have been stolen, but like any stolen thing that is not recovered, Newt has learned to carry on without it. Eventually, the loss of the stolen thing is no longer felt as sharply. It throbs from time to time, and fades away again.

Hermann catches his gaze. “Something wrong?” he asks.

Newt blinks. “Oh, no, I just…” he trails off. “Thinking,” he finally settles on.

“Oh?”

“Just…” Newt waves a hand. “About us…you and me, I mean.”

“Yes, that _is_ what ‘us’ implies,” Hermann says drily.

“Shut up,” Newt says, without any bite. “Anyway, I was just…thinking. So many things have changed, you know? But…” he hesitates; worries his lip. “It feels like everything else has moved and I’ve stayed still,” he admits quietly.

Hermann, across from him, stills; face settling into an unreadable expression; Newt fidgets, fingers drumming on the table; _shit,_ was that too much—

“Oh, Newton,” Hermann says, and reaches out, hand covering Newt’s, skin frigid to the touch; grounding. “I…” he trails off; not, Newt suddenly realises, because he doesn’t know _what_ to respond with, but rather because he doesn’t know how to translate his emotions into words; the feeling coiling beneath his sternum, tight.

Newt lets out a shaky breath, eyes slipping shut; savours Hermann’s touch, his thumb rubbing Newt’s wrist. “…thanks,” he mutters.

“You’re not,” Hermann says, suddenly. “Unchanged, I mean,” he clarifies. “You’ve…you’ve changed quite a lot, Newton—just…not at the same time as everyone else. And…that’s hard, I know, love.”

“Yeah,” Newt croaks, “yeah, it…it kind of is.”

“But,” Hermann continues, “I…I’m here for you. If—if you need it, I mean. If you…if you want it.”

“Thanks,” Newt manages, through the tightness in his throat, and smiles weakly through wet eyes. “It—it means a lot.”

“Of course,” Hermann replies, softly.

The rest of the day seems to pass more slowly, but honestly, Newt doesn’t mind. He’s got Hermann, and they’ve got this, together, and…that’s good.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [harrowwharks](https://harrowwharks.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
